


Droplets of Lethe

by Aethelflaed, Tarek_giverofcookies



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), CW: Implied/Offscreen Vomiting, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Fake Marriage, Food, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Long, M/M, Mystery, Poetry, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Suddenly Human Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies
Summary: Two months after the apocalypse, Aziraphale is acting strange - stranger than usual - almost afraid of Crowley. As if he doesn’t remember him.He doesn’t. Nor does he remember stopping the Apocalypse - their 6,000 years together - or anything about being an angel. As far as he can remember, he is a regular human. And as far as Crowley can tell...he is.With Aziraphale’s health rapidly deteriorating, Crowley must ask for help from the most competent people he knows - Madam Tracy and Anathema Device - to try and solve the mystery of what happened to Aziraphale (and how to fix it) before it’s too late.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 131
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Tarek-giverofcookies for the art; kindathewholepoint for the beta-reading, and everyone on the DIWS server for their support through this entire process!

The large ginger cat lounged beside the dumpster, grooming his leg, half-sleeping on the warm early-autumn day.

His life had taken a turn for the better since settling into this particular alleyway. Plenty to eat, a dry place to sleep away the day. Not too many other cats, which was how he preferred things. And no humans bothering him.

At least, until now.

The tall pale figure appeared at the end of the alley, little paper bag in hand. “Oh, hello! Aren’t you a gorgeous thing?”

The cat immediately tensed, backing away. The figure didn’t feel _exactly_ human, which was the only reason the cat hadn’t already run off. But it had two arms and an upright posture. That was close enough.

“Come here, let me look at you.” The figure crouched down, holding out a hand, baring its teeth the way humans do when they’re trying to act friendly. The cat hunkered down, tail protectively low along his body, and growled. “Oh, don’t you worry about me. I just think you –”

The hand got too close, and the cat swatted at it, preparing to use the distraction to dart into his fourth-favorite hiding place. But the figure seemed not to notice the razor-sharp claws.

“Well, alright. I’ll give you space. I thought I knew all the animals around here.” The figure rested a hand on its knee. “You haven’t been bothering the rats, have you? Only I have a bit of a truce with them, on account of my…my friend, you see. I don’t think he’d like it if you caused trouble. But a cat does have to eat.” The figure’s round face tilted to the side, apparently thinking.

The cat pulled back a few more steps, warily. It didn’t seem the not-human was going to attack, but a cat could never be sure about such things, especially with human-shaped beings. He could crawl beneath the dumpster easily enough, except that would mean turning his back on the figure in front of him. He’d learned the hard way to never turn his back on a human.

“I know! I have some nice cream back at my shop. And a bit of salmon. Would you like that? Perhaps mixed with some hardboiled egg? And a touch of sunflower oil, I think. Oh, yes, that sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

The cat flinched away as the figure stood up, but it made no move to approach. With one last waggle of fingers and a gentle click, it retreated around the corner. He watched it go, preparing to slink away to the safety of the sewer grate.

Instead, the cat found himself following after, unsure of what drove him. Some natural curiosity, perhaps, or a desire for company that years on the street hadn’t quite chased out of him.

In any case, the cat thought that meal _did_ sound rather lovely. Even though he didn’t understand a word of human language.

He watched from the mouth of the alley as the figure approached a red building where two streets crossed. It was a dangerous spot for a cat – lots of enormous human-powered machines running through at impossible speeds – but at the moment it seemed quiet. He took another tentative step forward.

The figure turned and waved cheerfully, pushing open the door. Then it turned, dropping its bag. Had it been a cat, its fur would have all stood on end.

Something in the air tingled.

A flash, like lightning from the clear sky –

\--

Crowley was late and there would be an argument.

That was usually the way of things these days. Try to have a conversation, there would be an argument. Go out for sushi, have an argument. Meet up at the park, argument. He’d thought, after everything that had happened in Tadfield, not to mention that night at his flat, and the near-executions the next day – Crowley had really believed things would be different.

They were different, in a way. They seemed to argue _even more._

Today, Aziraphale had suggested – out of nowhere – that they go for a drive and a picnic. Well, that sounded brilliant and all, but Crowley needed a little more information. Like _where are we driving to_ and _what do we eat at a picnic_ and _why does this wine seller not have any proper vintages?_

There’d been three lovely bottles of Sauvignon Blanc at the shop waiting for just such an occasion - not to mention a promising-looking Beaujolais that Crowley would have been happy to test - except that Aziraphale had gotten rid of all of them last month while “tidying up the back.” Some of Crowley’s favorite vintages had been lost in the uncharacteristic burst of cleaning, which had of course led to _another_ argument, and now Crowley was just expected to replace them at a moment’s notice?

But Aziraphale hadn’t been interested in actually trying to actually help, just called up, made his demands, and _by the by, I’ll be out of the shop for a few hours, take care of things, won’t you?_ As if Crowley had nothing better to do than spend the day googling picnic spots outside of London.

Well, actually, he didn’t have anything better to do. But still.

Now here he was, barreling down the road, swerving around drivers doing a mere forty-five, already half an hour later than when he was supposed to arrive. Aziraphale would almost certainly complain, _oh don’t you know the best sunlight is at 3:38 in the afternoon_ or some other nonsense, as if it hadn’t been the same blasted sun _every_ afternoon for six thousand years!

He spun the wheel, taking a corner so fast one of his tires left the road entirely, then downshifted and pulled up sharply in front of the shop. Cutting the engine, he took a moment to smooth his jacket and check his hair in the mirror. Then his eyes drifted to the reflection of the back seat.

“Oh, for _Someone’s_ sake!” The basket had flipped over during the drive. He turned around and, sure enough, the glass containers were _everywhere,_ across the seat and all over the floor. One wax-wrapped package had burst open, and the sandwiches had fallen to pieces, slices of deli meat everywhere he looked. Crackers, too, and no sign of the jar of dip.

“Just bloody perfect,” he grunted, adjusting his glasses and climbing out of the Bentley. He could miracle it all back into the basket, of course, but he’d need to know where it all was first, and that could take –

A bright orange cat darted between his legs, yowling furiously. Crowley barely managed to keep his feet under him, staggering against his car as the claw-tipped menace vanished down an alley. “Bloody nuisance,” he grumbled, standing up and adjusting his jacket again, hoping no one had seen.

No one had. The street was empty, which was already unlikely enough on a Saturday afternoon, and Aziraphale still hadn’t come out of the shop. Strange. Probably sulking already, or else lost in a book, a little smile stretching across his lips as if discovering the wit of Austen or Wilde for the first time.

Crowley caught a smile of his own starting to grow and fought it back. _Get a grip,_ he told himself firmly, as he had on a regular basis for the better part of two thousand years. Soppy smile like that, it was _embarrassing._ Likely to give Aziraphale the wrong idea, or worse, the right one.

That was _another_ argument they’d been dancing around, one that he had no interest in rehashing.

Setting his face to the detached expression that generally served him well, he shoved open the shop door. The wards were down - Aziraphale was expecting him; the physical doors were locked, but that never mattered to Crowley. “Angel!” A glance over at the desk and armchair. Not reading. Sulking it was then. “Alright, I’m here. Where are you hiding now?”

“Just – just a moment, please!” A thump from upstairs, followed by a pause.

“It’s your picnic we’re late for,” Crowley grumbled, but not loud enough for Aziraphale to hear him. He frowned, looking around. Something seemed off about the shop.

Nothing he could name, just a sense that the books on the tables weren’t quite stacked right. Too many drawers open on the desk. Was the little cupid figurine pointing in the wrong direction? Or had he just not remembered it right?

Something caught his eye about the rug in the doorway, an unexpected splash of color, perhaps. He crouched down to inspect it, but it was the same as always, deep reds and golds bleached pale by two centuries of sunlight. He was just starting to think he was paranoid, when his foot knocked against something. A paper shopping bag, just dropped on the floor, half under the nearest table.

That _was_ odd. Aziraphale wasn’t the type to simply leave his shopping lying around, and he certainly didn’t let customers leave anything behind. Crowley reached over to pick it up.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry!” A rattle of feet on the wrought iron stairs, and Crowley forgot all about it. Aziraphale came running down, suit just a little more rumpled than usual, a nervous smile on his face. “I have had quite the day, believe me. Now, er, were you waiting long?” He glanced worriedly at the still-open door.

“Just got here,” Crowley said, deciding not to do the put-upon act this time, since Aziraphale was already in a state. Another glance towards the desk, tucked back in the east corner. It had almost registered what was wrong. “Have you redecorated again or something?”

 _Redecorating_ was Aziraphale’s newest obsession. Sometimes that meant coming in to find a few new angels sitting on the shelves, or a table moved into the line where Crowley preferred to walk. Other times it was rearranging everything in the kitchen cupboards, or pulling the Oscar Wilde first editions off the shelf and sorting them by the quality of the binding. Once it had meant ten new rugs, delivered on the same day, all vanished just as mysteriously the next.

“Have I? Er, a bit?” Aziraphale edged towards the door, moving a bit more stiffly than usual. “I’m terribly sorry, I…I thought I had locked this.”

“You did.” Crowley frowned as Aziraphale started to shut the door, then sort of hovered next to it. “Are you alright, Angel?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped just the smallest bit, working uncertainly. Then he smiled. “I’m…fine, yes. Absolutely…er.”

“Tickety-boo?”

“I suppose you could say that.” He turned the doorknob with one hand, glancing uncertainly at Crowley. “I…I don’t mean to be rude, but…ah…”

“You’re the one who called me.” He walked over to where the antique cash register sat on a table, leaning into the gap between the bookcase and the column. “I’m only here because – _that’s_ what it is!” He spun back around, face a mix of triumph and surprise. Aziraphale flinched, pulling back slightly behind the door. “The sofa!”

He could usually see the corner of it from the entryway, but now it was missing entirely, replaced by a new bookcase, lying on its side.

In fact, Aziraphale’s whole office had been rearranged. The chess set was gone, too, as was the table Crowley always put his feet on. The desk had always faced the window, the chair usually rested at an angle for easy conversation. Now both were turned away towards a corner, private and forbidding.

“Ah, yes…I…thought it might be time for a bit of a change.”

“A bit of…Angel, that sofa has been there for two hundred years!” Crowley knew he shouldn’t be upset. He didn’t exactly consult Aziraphale on any of his own decorating schemes, a fact that had led to a few arguments of its own.

But that was _his_ sofa. At least, that’s how he’d always thought of it, a little welcoming spot in Aziraphale’s shop. He’d settled onto it the first day the furniture had moved in, left his gloves on it countless times, to be sure he always had an excuse to come back around.

In 1941, he’d sat there while Aziraphale checked his feet for burns, fingers strangely gentle, no scolding at all. He’d spent the night when the angel said it was too dangerous driving during a bombing, even though the all-clear had been given, and he’d woken up the next morning on that sofa to find Aziraphale sitting in his armchair, reading, having watched over him the whole night.

Now it was gone. He didn’t have the first idea what to make of that.

“Has it? Two hundred years? Well. I suppose it is about time for a change, then.” Now _there_ was something Crowley had never expected Aziraphale to say. “I’m…look, this is terribly embarrassing, but as I said I’ve had a bit of a strange day. Um. Why did I call you?”

“I don’t know. Something about it being the perfect day for a drive?”

“Did I? Oh that sounds charming.” Aziraphale glanced out the door, blinking at the Bentley as if he’d never seen it before. “I suppose that’s your car. It is very lovely. Ah. It would appear you have, er, some sort of salami all over the back seat.”

“The, ah, the picnic basket flipped over. And, yes, probably because I was driving too fast and not paying attention, you don’t need to start on that.” Crowley sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight, Angel. I know I’m late. You don’t need to get all…” he waved his hand, “passive-aggressive or whatever. There’s still plenty of daylight.”

“No, I-I-I-I just don’t feel hungry anymore,” Aziraphale said, pushing the door shut.

“You…what?” Crowley tried to remember the last time Aziraphale had turned down an offer of food. He couldn’t think of a single example. “Are you feeling alright?” Crowley crossed the shop in three long strides, but Aziraphale stumbled backwards.

“Yes, I’m – I’m quite alright, er, my good fellow. Just…just a bit of a headache is all.”

“A _headache?”_ Crowley reached for Aziraphale’s shoulder, but again the Angel avoided him, darting towards the center of the shop, and putting a column between them. “Why would you have a headache? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m…probably just…overdoing things, you know.” He lifted his hand to his forehead, rubbing it with an obvious wince. “Over tired. If we could reschedule our, er, our…”

“Oi.” Crowley leaned against the far side of the column, trying to drop his usual grating attitude. It wasn’t easy, but something had Aziraphale spooked. He lowered his voice, speaking as gently as he could. “Look. Whatever it is. You can tell me.”

“Can I?” Aziraphale’s hands tugged on his waistcoat, then adjusted his lapels. “I…I can trust you?”

It stung, of course, but the pain on Aziraphale’s face was always enough to make Crowley forget his own. “Angel. After everything we’ve been through.”

He’d asked the same thing, the day the world had failed to end. Standing in Crowley’s flat, holding each other’s hands as they prepared to switch corporations. That monumental task of maneuvering their physical bodies and their true bodies to pass each other without touching, lest their different natures destroy each other.

 _“Can I trust you?”_ Aziraphale had asked, manicured nails biting into the flesh of Crowley’s palm, eyes filled with confusion and loss. _“I mean…I know I can but…can you just…say it out loud?”_

He had. Perhaps he’d been weak, overwhelmed by the events of the day. Perhaps he’d been hopeful, thinking the words he said then would change things. They hadn’t, but he didn’t regret saying them.

Now he reached across and took Aziraphale’s hand. The angel flinched, but didn’t pull away. And Crowley repeated the words. “Yes. You can trust me. You can always trust me. Whatever comes next, however long we have, I’m here. At your side.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Now, will you stop messing around and _tell me what’s wrong?”_

Some of the stiffness seemed to go out of Aziraphale’s shoulders. He glanced to the side, nodding, blinking his eyes. When he reached up to adjust his bowtie, it was with only one hand. The other held tightly to Crowley’s, as if he were drowning.

“I…I…” He swallowed. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear fellow. I haven’t the first idea who you are.” Crowley started to pull away, but Aziraphale’s grip only tightened, until Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat racing through his palm. “I don’t remember you. Or this shop. Or…or even my own name.” He began to tremble. “I…I woke up on the floor a short while ago, and I…I don’t remember anything at all!”

“But that’s…” Crowley’s hand shifted, and Aziraphale’s heartbeat pounded all the more furiously. “No. Wait.” He brought up his other hand, pressing two fingers against Aziraphale’s soft wrist. It took a moment, sliding across the veins until he found it: a pulse. Fluttery. Quick. Uneven.

Human.

Aziraphale was completely human.

\--

The intruder appeared to be taking his pulse.

That didn’t make much sense. Nor did the way his brows lowered and his lips puckered. There was an anger in that expression, a fury that could level mountains, and the flat black glass covering his eyes made it all the more inhuman.

Of all the terrifying things that had happened this day, that expression was by far the worst.

_Should I ask him to leave? I should. This is my shop, after all._

Was it, though? The intruder had certainly barged in as though he owned the place. He’d been afraid the man in the dark suit and glasses was some sort of criminal, or worse, _landlord,_ especially when he walked near the till. Sharp edges and bitterness filled everything he said, and he moved like a dangerous animal about to strike.

He could be _part_ of it. Whatever _it_ was. If there was an _it_ to be part of.

Or was he just paranoid? It was so hard to _think_ around the pain in his head, sharp and piercing. It wasn’t his only pain. His back felt sore - wrenched, he supposed - and his fingers had a peculiar ache to them he couldn’t quite explain. He felt warm and nervous, and his anxiety only got worse as he realized he didn’t remember what he liked to do to relax.

 _He did say I could trust him._ It _felt_ true. It felt _real,_ in a way that very little had this past hour. In spite of everything, the threatening scowls and dark clothes and car full of sliced meat, he _wanted_ to trust this intruder.

Despite the fact that the man was, for some reason, still taking his pulse, and glaring at him as if he were sprouting extra heads.

“Well? What’s the diagnosis?”

“It’s…human…”

“Well that’s a relief.” He gently extracted his hand and attempted a smile. “I suppose you aren’t much of a doctor, are you? And I promise, I’m fine. I just…” He lifted a hand to rub his temple, as another shot of pain rippled across. “As I said. Headache.”

“You have a headache, and you lost your memory. You think there might be a connection?” The intruder caught his hand again, now inspecting the back side of it. “Your nails are chipped. When did this happen?” He ran a thumb across the jagged edge.

“It may surprise you to find that I don’t know.” He tugged his hand away more firmly this time. “It hardly seems relevant, though. Accidents happen.”

“What else? Does anything else hurt?” Rapid-fire questions, too quick for him to answer. “Are you tired? Hungry? You said no. Are you nauseous? What kind of headache?”

“Really, I’m quite well…despite…oh…” He tried to step back, but a wave of weakness struck him, shivering down his legs. He stumbled, reaching out for something to rest his weight on.

The intruder reacted immediately, looping one long arm around his shoulders, supporting him as he staggered. “Right. Let’s get you in a chair to start,” he said, rough edges of his voice not quite hiding something softer underneath. “Should be one just over here. Come along, Angel.”

 _Angel._ He felt a tiny thrill at the endearment, a prickle up his bruised spine and down his arms, that brought a smile to his face, the first genuine smile he could remember. His head felt warm and light and fuzzy…

Oh, no, that wasn’t good at all.

The uncontrollable shake shot from his chest and stomach, as if he had suddenly been doused with icy water, and his legs gave out entirely.

A shout from the intruder, syllables, maybe words. He couldn’t make them out. Everything was light and shadow without shape. Hands tugged at his jacket, but he was only aware of them distantly, as if it were happening to someone else.

When his eyes fluttered open – he didn’t remember closing them – he was sitting in a soft, comfortable armchair. The cushions and pillows molded around him in a familiar way. He didn’t recognize them, nor the desk nearby cluttered with old books and papers covered in a neat calligraphic script, but the chair remembered him. It was comforting. Grounding.

And a little disconcerting. He could see the column they had been standing by, and it was clear on the other side of the shop. He certainly could not have walked so far in this state, but how else could he have gotten here? Carried by the thin, angry man with the glasses? Impossible.

The intruder…if that’s what he was…still hovered nearby, pacing, rubbing at his jaw, face twisted in obvious pain.

“Oh. ‘m sorry, dear boy,” he slurred, tongue still feeling a little slow, as he tried to shift higher in his chair. It pulled against his sore back, a jabbing pain, and he quickly sank back down. “Did you…pull a muscle, perhaps?” He could certainly sympathize with _that._

“What? No. Shut up.” The intruder darted across the space, standing alarmingly close, long fingers reaching, hesitating, finally cupping his face. The rough pads of thumbs tugged at the skin under his eyes. “You feel…you’re burning up. Your eyes look fine, but…” Cool fingers brushed across his forehead, then pulled away as if scalded. “This isn’t…how could this happen?”

“I certainly have no…” He managed to sit a little straighter this time, waving the hands away as they returned. “Don’t fuss, I’m feeling better already.”

“Liar,” the other man muttered, grabbing for his hands, pressing them together, rubbing the backs. “Your head is hot, your hands are cold...I don’t know what any of this means…”

“Just a fever, I should think. And poor circulation. Can’t be unusual in a man my age.”

But the other man clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “Not true. You’re - you’re young and healthy and you don’t get sick!” He glanced down at the hands he was holding captive. “Your ring! You aren’t wearing it.”

“Oh? Is that unusual?”

“Yeah. You never take it off, even after...it _must_ be in the shop.”

“Hmm,” he sighed, shivering again, feeling the heaviness of his eyes and mind. “Found a pair of glasses, you know. In my pocket. Don’t seem to need them.”

“Nah, you just wear those to look smart.” The other man pressed the back of a hand to his cheek again, making a sound of distress. “I don’t know what to _do.”_

“You know, I believe I could use a cup of tea. But I’m not sure…”

“I’m on it.” He was on his feet in an instant, circling behind the chair, leaning in from the other side. “Don’t - don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything. Just stay put.”

“Where on Earth would I go?” But the long black shape had already vanished into a back room. There was a clink of glass, the rush of water filling the kettle.

Well. It would appear this man knew his way around, at least. He was familiar with the kitchen. And it seemed that they knew each other. Knew each other quite well, in fact.

He gazed after the man, a suspicion growing in his sleep-slowed mind.

\--

It took three minutes to boil the kettle, and three more to steep the tea. Crowley could have hurried it, but he needed the time to relax, to think everything through.

The fever had come from nowhere; that might explain why Aziraphale had collapsed. But what could have caused it?

Nothing natural. Angels didn’t _get_ infections, and even a human couldn’t have picked one up in the few hours since they’d spoken.

Pushing away from the counter - there was only so long Crowley was willing to stare at a tea bag - he fussed over the table and chairs in the back. A new set - brought in a few weeks ago - much smaller than the original. In fact, one side of the round table had been folded down; and tucked against the wall like that there wasn’t room for two beings to sit comfortably. At least it gave Crowley more space to move past.

Not that he was going anywhere. Crowley paced across the back room, finally returning to pick up the tea. He noticed something on the ground, half under the small refrigerator, possibly kicked there by Crowley’s own foot.

He bent down and picked it up, staring at the object for a long moment before tucking it into his pocket. The tea should be ready by now.

Picking up the white mug that Aziraphale was particularly fond of, filled now with very strong tea, he hurried back into the main shop. “Right. Drink this, and I think we should talk about...”

Aziraphale was slumped in the chair, not moving.

The mug tumbled from his fingers, shattering on the ground.

Crowley darted forward, grabbing at Aziraphale’s collar, tugging the bow tie loose. “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? Breathe! Just keep breathing, I--”

“Oh. Dear f’low,” he mumbled, head shifting slightly. “M’ just asleep. So...tired…”

Weren’t you supposed to keep concussion patients awake? Or was that hypothermia? Both?

“Come on, open your eyes! Look at me!”

One blue eye slitted open, wandering across Crowley’s features to settle on the broken mug and tea spilled across the floor. “My carpet. Or...is it your carpet?” His hand raised to rub across his eyes. “Who’s shop is this?”

“Do I look like I own a bookshop?” Hesitating, Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. Not as hot anymore, but still warm, and sticky with sweat. “Are you hot?”

“Cold. Need...is there a blanket?”

“Right here,” Crowley said, miracling one into existence and shaking it out over Aziraphale’s lap. “Better? Do you need a thicker one?”

“S’nice,” Aziraphale assured him, closing his eyes again. “You...looking out for me...darling?”

“Of course,” he muttered, tucking the sides of the blanket into the chair. Crowley rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, checking him thoroughly for injuries. He sensed more this time - the scraped, jammed fingers, the enormous bruise across his back. He healed both quickly, bringing a little sigh of relief from the half-sleeping angel. But no matter how he searched, there was no sign of infection, or debilitation, or _anything_ that could explain what had happened. Not even a bump on the head. Ordinary exhaustion, yes, but nothing more.

Aziraphale was, apparently, a perfectly healthy _human._

“Why don’t you...try and sleep?” Crowley took his hands away and adjusted the blanket again. “I’m right here.”

“Just...few minutes…” he nodded his head, almost smiling. “D’you think...my memory’ll come back?”

“We can hope.”

Crowley waited another moment, but Aziraphale didn’t say a word, just breathed, deeply and heavily. Even snored a little.

Standing up, Crowley pulled the broken piece of feather out of his pocket. It wasn’t his or Aziraphale’s - it was dark brown, with a lighter patch, and just the very tip, no wider than his thumb.

Someone else had been here.

Twirling the broken piece of feather between his fingers, Crowley stepped into the center of the shop. He’d hoped there would be more - something large enough to get a sense if it was Heavenly or Hellish - but in that moment the shop looked bigger than it ever had before, a labyrinth of paper and shelves and corners where anything could be hiding.

He pulled his glasses off and looked around frantically. It was luck, perhaps, the sun coming through the skylight above at just the right angle, but he saw something glint at the base of a column, far in the back, opposite the door.

He crossed the floor and scooped it up - Aziraphale’s ring, bright gold seal slightly tarnished, blackened by something that felt suspiciously like the fires of Hell.

“No,” Crowley whispered, running his hands across the column, checking for damage. “No, no what did you _bastards_ do?” He couldn’t see any sign of where the attack might have taken place. And Aziraphale’s fingers had been bruised, not burned.

Still, _something_ had done this. Something that hadn’t been stopped by Aziraphale’s wards-

The wards that had been _down_ when Crowley arrived.

Darting back to the door, he tugged it open, searching frantically for the lines of angelic power, so different from his own. There - and there - like thick, invisible cords wound around the building. He twisted his hands in them, trying to get a sense…

Aziraphale had started putting them up days after the Apocalypse had failed, bands of protection intended to keep out any power of Heaven or Hell. They were _powerful,_ too, designed by the Guardian of the Eastern Gate himself with the help of some old books. He’d sworn that they would keep him utterly safe; current evidence suggested otherwise.

Crowley could feel them now. A tear, a gash, carved deep into the magic, right by the door. Another in front of the window, a third by the back door. Deep slashes, like claw marks, nearly severing the invisible protections at every point of entry.

Something had tried to get in. Something _violent._

Crowley let the angelic power slip from his fingers, trying to keep them from trembling. He tucked the ring into his pocket, next to the feather, and crossed back to where Aziraphale slept in his chair.

He brushed his fingers across Aziraphale’s forehead, feeling his temperature again. Nearly thirty-eight degrees, cooler than before, but still too high. The angel shifted in his sleep, pressing against Crowley’s hand with a wordless murmur.

“I’ll fix this,” Crowley vowed, pushing sweat-soaked hair back from Aziraphale’s brow. “I don’t know what the _Heaven_ happened, but I will fix it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [ AethelflaedLadyofMercia,](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/) and you can find Tarek at [TarekGiverofCookies](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/) (whose art is ABSOLUTELY LOVELY).
> 
> Next chapter comes out in a week - please let us know in the comments what you think!  
> \--  
> Lethe: One of the five rivers in Hades, the name means "Forgetfulness" or "Oblivion."


	2. Anazētô

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins to investigate what happened to Aziraphale...

When his eyes fluttered open, the room was not as bright as before, the light now clearly coming from the western window, casting long shadows into his cluttered little corner. The man with no memory stretched, letting the blanket fall, and was relieved to find the motion didn’t hurt his back in the least. Leaning forward he rubbed up and down his spine. It felt _good._

“I do believe that nap was just what I needed,” he called, turning to spot the other man - and to marvel at how easily he moved now. “My head is still a bit sore, but I don’t feel the least…”

There was no one else in the shop.

“Er...hello?”

He held his breath, straining for a footstep, a shuffle, any sign that someone was here.

Nothing. Silence.

He stood up quickly, blanket tumbling into a pile on the carpet, nearly tripping over it in his rush to start searching. “Hello? Strange...sunglasses...man? Are you...are you still here?” He glanced around, frantically. “Is _anyone_ there? Hello?”

He looked down, remembering the tea that had spilled - not a drop, not a stain, not a single ceramic shard. As if it had never happened.

Turning back to the window, he searched up and down the street. It was growing crowded - he was sure that was an improvement over the empty sidewalks before - but no trace of the vintage black car with its back seat full of disassembled sandwiches.

It all sounded a bit absurd now that he thought of it. A mysterious man - a fierce, doting partner, appearing from nowhere to make him tea and fetch blankets.

Had he simply hallucinated it? Fallen asleep in the chair and dreamt the whole thing? A result of his desperate loneliness, trapped alone in this shop for untold ages…

Was this how delirium started?

He leaned against the desk, trying to still the trembling that started in his fingers. And then he saw it, tucked in a corner away from the books and records - a mug of tea, hot against his fingers. He studied it, white ceramic and feathery wings on the handle. Surely it was the one that had fallen across the rug - but, no, here it was, filled with rich amber liquid, quietly steaming in the empty room.

Next to it, a note - dashed off in an angular hand, scrawled from a pen meant for more careful calligraphy.

_Think I’ve got something._

_Don’t move. I’ll be back soon._

_Explain everything then._

That was all, apart from a small plate of biscuits next to the tea.

He lifted the mug, taking a careful sip. It was exactly the perfect temperature, with a hint of milk and sugar, enough to bring out the flavor without masking it. The little white cloud of milk was still expanding, as if dropped only a moment before.

His partner couldn’t have been gone long. That was a relief, he realized, with a smile and a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with fever.

 _Partner._ He was increasingly sure that was _nearly_ the right term.

But those words he’d said, back by the column; that softness in his voice when he tried to hide his worry; and what had he said about a ring…?

\--

The Bentley roared across the Thames, squeezing down the space between lanes, bypassing cars and buses and the occasional pedestrian. Crowley missed them all, one miraculous escape after another. Nothing would dare get in his way today. He didn’t have time for that.

He held the ring in his fingers, clutching it as tightly as he could.

Already the black tarnish had brushed off, which was _good._ It meant it probably wasn’t actual Hellfire, which would have destroyed the ring entirely. But there were still many types of fire down in the pits, and a faint scent of sulfur and brimstone hung over the bright gold metal.

It had to be Hell. He didn’t know why they’d come for the angel, but who else could it be? The claw marks all over his wards spoke of multiple attacks, yet Aziraphale hadn’t said anything. Not a _word._ Any time Crowley had asked, he’d just smiled and said _this shop is the safest place in all of London, my dear boy. Stop worrying about me._

He’d almost let himself start to believe it. And now...

Crowley hadn’t really been able to reset the elaborate protections, merely looped the two ends of the wards together. Hoped it would hold. But above that, he’d woven his own protections, and once they were in place, no mortal or supernatural being would be able to see the bookshop until he personally pointed it out.

That was the kind of protection he could count on. Aziraphale might be the Guardian, but Crowley was _very_ good at hiding.

Certainly much better than the demon he was looking for.

South of the Thames and eastward, the winds started to pick up, clouds dotting the sky that hadn’t been visible from Soho. He paused the Bentley at an intersection, cranking down the window to take a deep sniff. Despite the signs of rain, there was a hint of desert in the air.

It had already taken over half an hour to get here - and another ten minutes of driving around that Crowley _could not afford_ \- before he finally saw his target, lurking outside a park on an otherwise unremarkable street lined with brownstone townhouses. Dark curls of hair tugged and twisted in the wind, and the playground equipment rattled. Three children who had been clamoring all over the jungle gym clutched for dear life, trying not to fall on their heads, while their mothers pulled sweets out of backpacks for afternoon snacks.

“Oi. Wanker,” Crowley called, jumping out of the Bentley. “Stop creeping around kids’ playgrounds, you get arrested for that these days.”

The other demon turned to him with a smile more like the baring of teeth, showing fangs wide and curved like a lion’s. “Ah, Crawly. Where have you been hiding?”

“Crowley,” he snapped, shoving the demon’s narrow frame back against the fence. For a second, the pointed face seemed to pass through an inky mist, emerging from the other side with different, softer features - straighter hair, rounded chin, wider shoulders. “What the Heaven have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know,” the demon dragged fingertips across Crowley’s arm. They _looked_ like human fingernails, but he could feel the claws tugging at his sleeve. “Chaos. Destruction. _Someone_ has been letting the humans feel content and safe for thousands of years. Time to bring back a little of the old ways, don’t you think?”

“That include attacking angels in their homes?”

“They are the _enemy,”_ the shifter scoffed. “And we are at _war.”_

“No, we aren’t. There _is_ no war, there was this whole big _thing_ about that. In case you missed it.” Crowley shoved the demon again, causing the fence to rattle and creak under their combined weight. Again, the face dissolved into black shadow, and returned, this time with soft dark eyes and pouting lips. “And I specifically recall telling you lot that he and I are to be _left alone.”_

“Can’t blame an udug for trying, can you?” The demon slid out of his grasp as easily as water, and moved down the fence, swaying like the wind. “I thought he was supposed to be this big, scary unstoppable warrior. What’s he doing, sending _you_ to make his threats?”

“Like you don’t know.” Crowley clenched his fists, trailing behind. “What did you do?”

“I? Not a thing.” The wind howled again, and the jungle gym rattled, shifted, until one bar broke, leaving a child suddenly dangling, screaming in true fear. “Just as I won’t do a thing to those children over there. Just the work of gravity. I won’t intervene until someone asks me to.”

Crowley watched the mothers rush over to pull the children free, clutching them close, herding them away from danger. “It won’t work, you know,” Crowley grumbled. “Maybe three thousand years ago you could convince them to sell their souls to keep their children safe, but these days? If that thing breaks they sue the company that made it. Write angry letters to the council. And the kid gets to walk around school with a cast for everyone to sign. They don’t need _you_ to protect them.”

“You sound almost proud.” The demon turned again to face Crowley, passing through swirling blackness to emerge looking ten years older, short hair streaked with grey, stubble growing across a square jaw. “We _will_ teach them to fear again.” A cold smile, showing just a hint of fang. “But to more immediate matters, no, I didn’t do anything to your angel, apart from rattle his defenses in the night. Sounds like someone else was more successful.”

“You’re Hell’s new agent in London,” Crowley pointed out, crossing his arms. “If it wasn’t you, you know who did it.”

“Perhaps.” The demon circled around Crowley and sauntered away, ignoring the mothers as they hauled their children back to the bench, checking for injuries. “If you tell me what happened, I’m sure I can...guess.”

“I didn’t come here to play games. Who was it? How did they get in? What did they _do?”_

“I need _details_ first. Or I suppose I can guess that, too.” The demon spun back, emerging again from shadow - round face, blue-grey eyes, fussy hands tugging nervously at the pale jacket. “Did they leave his body for you to find, my dear?” Blood dripped from the corner of the udug's smile.

Crowley felt his stomach drop away, stumbling back from the image before him. “They were supposed to _kill_ him?”

“Ah, but they didn’t. That’s encouraging, for you at least.” The figure stepped forward, plump hands smoothing down Crowley’s lapels. “He must be hurt badly, though, or you’d ask him instead of me. Unconscious?” The word rolled gleefully off the demon’s tongue, eyes glowing with excitement. “Bleeding out all over the floor of that moldy shop? Or is he simply unable to speak?”

Crowley shoved the reflection of his friend away. The demon passed through another shadow, returning as something even less human, with fangs and claws and scales of tarnished gold, still somehow twisted around Aziraphale’s features. “Interesting. What did they do? Cut out his tongue? Run him through with one of their swords? Slit his throat?”

“I’ll slit _your_ throat if you don’t…” Crowley caught himself, and felt the corner of a smile tug at his face. Not the nice sort of smile. “Swords? They had swords? Flaming swords perhaps?”

The other demon backed up, features quickly sliding to an unfamiliar face. “I only said…”

“Oh, no. You said _one of their swords._ It wasn’t any of you lot at all, it was the blessed _angels.”_ Crowley slammed his hand against the chain link fence at the edge of the park, tearing through it as easily as nylon. “Those - those _bastards._ They came after one of their _own.”_

“Not one of their own anymore, as you were so quick to point out.” The other demon flicked a hand across slick black hair, smoothing it back with a frown. “Heaven can’t risk having a rogue agent like that. Might give other angels _ideas._ Then where would they be?”

“You _knew.”_

“Of course I knew.” The demon caught under Crowley’s chin with a finger, sharp claw nearly breaking through the flesh. “Like you said. This is _my_ city now. And they wanted some demonic assistance to get rid of their traitor.” The claw pulled away, and the demon shrugged, smiling. “But like I said. Didn’t do a thing. Not my scene, as it were.”

“You know who they went to?”

“Not me. Though I think one of those wankers had some connections on our side anyway. You can go ask at Head Office but, oh, wait,” another brush of shadows, and the shifter stepped out in flowing skirts the color of twilight. “You wanted to be left alone, didn’t you? Well. Enjoy being alone.” The demon spun away, already fading into the gloom despite the bright afternoon light. “Wonder how much longer that angel has? His...associates...seemed very upset. Think he’ll last the night?”

Crowley ran forward, reaching out, but the fading figure passed under the shade of a tree and dissipated entirely.

The Bentley roared back to Soho faster than it had ever moved.

\--

After the fright he’d had, the cat decided a very thorough grooming was in order.

He settled down on the window sill of a white building on a narrow street, too narrow for any of those obnoxious machines the humans raced up and down the roads, heedless of the animals who lived here. He delicately licked his paw, rubbing it across his face.

Normally, he wouldn't come here until after sunset - it was far too close to one of those _human feeding places._ Several sat there now, around outdoor tables, talking as they ate and sipped too-hot liquid from shiny mugs. The food smelled even more delicious than usual today, and he felt his stomach rumble.

Other cats would sometimes come by and beg for scraps - cats with sleeker coats and unbent tails and fewer scars. The sort of cats humans like. _He,_ on the other hand, would just get chased away, maybe get something thrown at him.

Well. He’d had enough of that nonsense for one day. This was what came from following humans - or human-shaped-beings - back to their homes. Catch him doing _that_ again. He would have a good wash, then settle down to bask in the sun for a few hours. Maybe find some delectable scraps in the rubbish after all the humans left. He’d certainly earned it. 

The cat was just turning to start on his back when his less-torn ear twitched.

He heard...nothing, actually, but he knew _something_ was coming. Like that tingle in the air outside the red building, but gentler. _Another_ almost-human, but not quite here yet.

The cat jumped off the window and darted across the cobblestones. The buildings on this side had stairs down to a level below the street. They were blocked by a thick black fence, which would probably keep out humans, dogs, and other stupid creatures, but the cat simply jumped into a convenient planter (taking a quick nibble at some of the greens, just in case), then dropped down to the shaded lower level.

He got there just in time. Footsteps across the cobblestones above - a little too perfectly even to be any human or animal. As they passed a wave of - of _something_ hit the cat. He wasn’t one for existential introspection, but another being might have named it _dread._ A deep-seated fear that tugged at things he’d long since buried under layers of scar tissue and anger. He trembled where he crouched.

His ears twitched, listening to the unnatural footsteps come to a sudden stop, close to where the human voices all jumbled together. A snap of words from a not-human voice. Even unable to comprehend the words, the cat recognized it - the voice had a ring of authority, of power. It filled him with an overwhelming desire to slink into the open, to show himself, to roll over on his back and appease the strange being.

To follow it around, meek and helpful like some sort of _house cat._

The idea of that made him tremble even more.

In the corner of the concrete rectangle at the bottom of the stairs, there were a few human objects, a jumble of tools, pointed and forbidding. The cat squeezed behind them, pulling himself into his smallest possible shape. Hiding like a kitten.

The human voices seemed to be trying to tell the not-human... _something._ They seemed eager to share whatever it was, but there was no mistaking the not-human’s anger when it cut them off. A few words and there was an instant shuffle of feet, a dozen bodies abandoning their meals.

A short pause, then the eerily regular feet started moving again - up the street, away from the cat. He crouched there still, a long time, until the footsteps faded entirely, and the street fell silent.

He crept out, one low step at a time, creeping up the stairs until he peered just over the edge of the street. Nobody here.

It was a bit trickier getting out of the stairs, but the cat managed it, dropping his great muscled bulk back onto the cobblestones. His ears turned this way and that - nothing to _hear,_ nothing to _smell,_ nothing from that other strange sense. It would appear he was alone.

He trotted over to the abandoned tables, happy to treat himself after yet another scare. He jumped up on the first one, and nosed at a bowl of something that smelled meaty and good. Better than what he usually had to eat. But not what had smelled so delicious before. Odd.

He crouched and leapt over to the next, sniffing hopefully. Ah. One of those bread-things with something sweet and fruity piled up in the center. He licked it, and it tasted wonderful. The cat happily lapped the fruit out of two of the sweet breads, then investigated the cup next to it, low and broad, practically a bowl. It was filled with a light brown liquid, not too warm, and he detected an interesting blend of spices. 

A taste - quick press of his tongue - and, yes, that was _just_ what he needed.

The cat settled down, preparing for a good long drink.

His torn ear twitched, the strange tingle running up his back again. On an instinct, he leapt from the table, paws skittering at cobblestones.

His back paws hadn’t even touched the ground when an invisible force struck the table, flipping it over, smashing it into the building.

The cat looked up to see - well, it _looked_ human, just as the other had earlier today. But this one felt even more strange.

More _foreign._

More _angry._

Trusting the instincts that had kept him alive for many long years on the street, the cat charged back up the narrow alley as fast as he could move, trying to outrun the commanding shouts of the being behind it.

\--

The wards around the shop door were unbroken, but that wasn’t enough to calm Crowley. He threw open the doors, and immediately stopped breathing.

It was in utter chaos. Not the carefully controlled chaos the angel preferred - stacks of books just this side of collapse, loose papers squirreled away in every gap, trinkets and furniture jumbled around, poetry collections organized along some plan more ineffable than the mind of the Almighty - no, this was something else. Drawers open. Papers scattered. Armchairs stripped of their cushions, all thrown into a pile in the center of the room. The shop looked _searched._

And the little office space in the eastern corner was empty.

“Azir--” he choked out, darting forward. The tea had hardly been touched, cold now, the miracle he’d set on it long since worn off. The thick blanket in a pile on the floor, pillows in disarray.

He tried the kitchen next, and found it worse - dishes everywhere, a few of them broken, every cupboard opened, teas and biscuits and little packets of sweets spilled out all across the floor.

“No. No, no, no, you bastards, there’s no way you could have gotten in, you unholy--”

A soft noise, an intake of breath, from across the shop.

Slipping through the shadows, Crowley crossed the back room, past the little table that was now only big enough for one. A shelf in the corner should have held what was left of the wine and brandy selection, but the bottles all stood or lay on the floor, the shelf itself bare except for the mirror above it. Something moved in the reflection - Aziraphale, sitting at the bottom of the twisted iron steps to the second floor.

“What are you doing over here?” Crowley demanded, stepping back into the light of the main shop. “Didn’t you hear me…”

Aziraphale wiped at his face, sniffing, turning away. “Oh, I - I - I’m afraid I needed a moment to - to prepare, ah, before I - oh, dear.”

In a moment, Crowley was kneeling beside him, hands hovering awkwardly over Aziraphale’s shoulders. Could he? Should he? He’d allowed himself little touches before, to make sure Aziraphale was safe, but now…

That had never been who they _were._

Crowley let his hand fall, fingers resting on the bottom step, near Aziraphale’s feet. “Are you alright? Who was here? Did they hurt you? I’ll kill them, those feathered bastards, this time I will _kill them--”_

“No! Not at all!” Aziraphale waved his hands, eyes wide in alarm. “There’s been no one in all day, except for you! I - I wouldn’t have opened the door for anyone, I promise.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Crowley growled. “Look at the shop out there! Did they threaten you? What did they say? Was it Gabriel? Michael? I swear--”

“It was me!” Aziraphale squeaked, hands coming up to shield his face. For a moment he looked afraid. Afraid of _Crowley._ That hurt, more than he could have imagined possible, hooks deep in his gut. “I - I woke up feeling a little better, so I thought I’d...look for clues. Only I don’t know what I’m looking for so I, really, sort of, just made a mess.” 

Crowley clenched his teeth, trying to calm down, trying to channel all the anger and fear away from his voice. “Did you find anything?” No, that still sounded impatient. Condescending.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said weakly. Not...not even a driver’s license or…”

“You don’t have one.” Crowley sighed, sitting back. “Look, we can search _together_ if you’re up for it. I’ll know what things mean better than you will. What did you expect to find in the chair cushions, anyway?”

Aziraphale shrugged, rubbing his hands together and studying his fingers. “You...ah...the ring...seemed important...so I thought…”

“Did you remember it?” It seemed odd, that Aziraphale would remember something so connected with Heaven, and not any part of their lives together, but any start was promising.

“No, I just...thought maybe if I saw it again…” He shivered, clutching at his arms. “Perhaps it was foolish. Nothing else has worked, so why would this? I’m a fool.”

“No, I’m the idiot,” Crowley said, reaching into his pocket. “I found it, over there by the column, took it with me.” He held it up for one last inspection. The tarnish had flaked entirely away, the sulfur scent dissipated. There was nothing else to detect. Whether it had been a hint to the identity of Heaven’s demonic assistant, or something else, the clue was gone now. He held it out to Aziraphale. “You can have it back, if you like.”

Soft, trembling fingers plucked up the little circle of gold. “Oh. Oh, it...it isn’t what I imagined at all. But it’s _beautiful.”_ Crowley shrugged. “Here, I’ll just…” Aziraphale started sliding the ring onto his left hand, but he was still shaking, nearly dropping it in the process.

“I’ll do it,” Crowley quickly cut in, taking Aziraphale’s hand as gently as he could. The ring felt oddly tight, but a little miracle and it slid on, snug and comfortable. And he noticed, when he rested his fingers on Aziraphale’s, they didn’t tremble quite as much. He let them linger for a few seconds, providing a bit of comfort…

_Wait._

Aziraphale wore that ring on his pinky. Except now it was sitting on his ring finger. Which meant…

“Ah, yes, that does feel better.” For the first time all day, that warm, shining smile made its appearance. “Not familiar, exactly, but...I don’t know...more certain.”

“Um,” Crowley began, then fell silent like the coward he was.

“I just - I’m sorry, you can’t know what it’s like. My mind is...it’s empty. I look for anything, my childhood, my friends, my hobbies, even my _name,_ and there’s nothing.” His fingers tightened around Crowley’s hand. “It’s...it’s terrifying.”

“Mh,” Crowley tried again. “Ngk.”

“But, it’s just...it’s so comforting to know that my...my husband is here. That I don’t have to be _alone.”_

“Ha,” Crowley managed. “Yuh.”

“I’m not...I haven’t got it wrong have I?”

It would only take one word to clear this up.

In six thousand years, Crowley had never lied to Aziraphale. Not really. Not about anything important. It should have been easy - almost instinct - to correct him now.

But in six thousand years, he’d also never learned to deny that smile.

“Yeah. I mean. No. I mean.” He awkwardly tried to grasp Aziraphale’s hand, not sure where the fingers were supposed to go. There were so _many,_ and all those _joints,_ which was clearly a _design flaw_ of some kind. But he eventually got them twined together somehow, and the soft pressure from every side was like being enveloped in angelic glow. “I’m...I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, bending over his hand, and suddenly his lips were brushing against Crowley’s fingers. He’d never even _imagined_ something like that, like the warm tingling flush that shot up his arm, and infected his mind with flashes of silver. “I know it...it probably doesn’t mean much to you,” Aziraphale continued, completely unaware of how Crowley’s world was shattering and reassembling itself into some inconceivable new shape, “but right now...I just needed to hear that.”

“S’alright,” he managed.

Aziraphale glanced up, and Crowley worried he would smile again, as that would surely discorporate him on the spot, and probably rip his true inner being to shreds.

Instead, there was a tear rolling down Aziraphale’s cheek, and that was infinitely worse.

“No, no,” Crowley hissed, sure he’d screwed this up already. “Don’t cry, please.”

“It’d be impossible not to,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice bright, even as his lip quivered and another tear started to fall. “I don’t...I haven’t…”

“Are you feeling sick again?” His hand shot up again to brush Aziraphale’s brow, test his temperature. But this time, Aziraphale leaned into it, pressing his cheek into Crowley’s palm, and the demon was powerless to stop it happening, powerless to do anything but feel the curve of it meld into his hand.

“I never stopped, if you must know. I’m a little better, but...so weak. Tired. I think I am a little hungry now, though, so that might be an improvement.”

“Good,” Crowley started to pull away. “Let me get you some--”

“No,” Aziraphale’s hand tugged him back. “Can we just...sit here a moment?” He shifted, making more space on the stairs. Space to sit beside him. _Right_ beside him. “I...I suppose I am being rather silly, but...but...you were gone for so long. It felt like hours and hours, and I didn’t want to leave, I don’t...even know what city that is outside, or who you are, or who I am.” He pulled his hands free, burying them in his hair, face melting into a panic as Crowley watched, helpless. “Was this an accident? Did someone hurt me? I’m...I feel like I should be afraid, but I don’t know of who or what, and I...I wouldn’t even recognize _them_ if they came back, whoever _they_ are, and I don’t know who I could call, or where else to go…” His voice broke into a sob.

Angels didn’t cry. They _could_ cry - usually a single, stoic tear to express the pain and tragedy of whatever awful act they were going to commit, or helpless sorrow at some travesty they could cure with a wave of the hand. But nothing like this. Not great heaving, heart-racking sobs, not the streams of tears flowing like rivers, not the sniffs and coughs as Aziraphale struggled to get a breath, doubling over himself in pain.

There was nothing angelic about this display. It was completely, totally human.

Strangely, that helped. After all, Crowley didn’t know how to help a wounded, panicking angel. But he did know what to do for a crying human.

Sliding onto the step beside him, Crowley wrapped his arm across Aziraphale’s back, pulling him close, letting his head fall upon Crowley’s shoulder, platinum-white curls tickling his throat. One hand pressed into that hair, rubbing little circles, while the other ran up and down Aziraphale’s arm.

“That’s right, love,” Crowley said, in the same voice he’d used when Warlock had tried to ride his bike alone for the first time, and fallen painfully, skinning both knees. “You let it all out. I have you now. I’m right here.” Aziraphale twisted against him, much as Warlock had all those years ago, burying his face in Crowley’s neck, wrapping arms around him.

It should have felt _wrong._ It did feel wrong - the arms clinging to him had no more strength than the five-year-old child’s had, and for all his solid bulk, Aziraphale seemed ready to blow away in the wind.

And yet somehow, for the moment at least, it felt exactly right. As if his arms existed for no other reason than to hold Aziraphale, his voice for nothing but whispering, “It’s alright. I’m here. It’s alright.”

After a while, the tears subsided, and Aziraphale pulled away, face pink with the shame Crowley had known would be there. “I...oh, I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s...I mean, it’s me. I don’t mind.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d never imagined Aziraphale needing to be held like that, but he’d long since decided, whatever the angel needed from him, he would provide it. Always.

In a way, he was honored, to be able to see this side of the unflappable Aziraphale, to be trusted so deeply with something so personal.

Except that Aziraphale hadn’t trusted him, not really. It was based on a lie, a lie Crowley had told. And if Aziraphale was embarrassed now, that was nothing to when he learned they weren’t actually _married,_ that Crowley had deceived him, tricked him into this undignified display. Surely Aziraphale would _hate_ him for that, probably cut the demon out of his life entirely, send him away, another century without a word between them because Crowley always asked for things Aziraphale couldn’t give him --

The spiral of guilt was entirely derailed by the smile growing in the sunrise glow of Aziraphale’s face. “I...yes, I suppose you wouldn’t mind at all. I...well, I feel just foolish now but...I don’t even know your name.” He rubbed his hands across his knees, looking fixedly at the table in the back room, as if it held some answer. “I know the shop is A. Z. Fell, found that in the ledger by the till. I assume that must be one of us?”

“It’s you,” Crowley assured him. “Told you. I don’t do books.” He realized his hand was still resting between Azirapahle’s shoulders and quickly pulled it away. “Ah. Your shop. All yours. Been yours forever, really.”

“That’s...that’s good. It makes sense, none of the receipts were in your handwriting.” He turned to Crowley, expectant and a little afraid.

“Oh, ah. Crowley.” Pale eyebrows raised just a little. “Er. Anthony J. Crowley,” he clarified, because it was either that or explain about demonic names, and demonic identities, and demonic natures, and a whole host of conversations he didn’t even know how to begin.

“That’s a lovely name. And...I suppose _Angel_ is my name? It’s a bit unusual.”

“What? Oh, no I - I just call you that. It’s Aziraphale.” Confusion rippled across his face, and Crowley realized he should have taken the obvious out when it was given to him. “Yeah. Um. Aziraphale. Really old-fashioned, but it suits you, right? Very, you know,” he waved a hand vaguely at the shop.

“And...what does the Z stand for?” Crowley tried not to look as lost as he felt. “A. Z. Fell,” the angel clarified. “Or is that...no, you said that was my name?”

“Yeah, it’s…” Suddenly, Crowley could not remember a single human name he had ever heard. “...Zira.”

“Aziraphale...Zira...Fell?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, trying to sound confident.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “That will take some getting used to, I suppose. But I...I have time, yes?”

_Think he’ll last the night?_

It was an empty threat. The demon hadn’t _done_ anything, hadn’t _known_ anything, had assumed Aziraphale’s injuries were physical not...whatever this was.

But the worry still echoed in Crowley’s mind.

Wounded or not, Aziraphale wasn’t well. Crowley had felt the way the fever surged in him, out of nowhere, could see the way he trembled. Whoever Heaven had sent - and Crowley would bet anything it was Gabriel himself, the smug bastard - had tried to _kill_ Aziraphale, tried to murder him in his own home.

Whatever they’d attempted, they’d left Aziraphale weakened and ill, and an angel’s corporation wasn’t the same as a real human body. It might not be able to take the strain. There might be complications. And if there was no way to turn him back…

How long did humans live these days? Surely nearly a hundred years? How old was Azirpahale’s body? Crowley had never been good at judging human ages, not after the teenage years. And Aziraphale - he might act like an ancient scholar, but his body must be young and healthy, still many decades left to go?

He thought of Aziraphale growing old, withering away before his eyes, leaving him alone for eternity. Intentional or not, Heaven could hardly have created a more perfect torture.

“Are you alright, Anthony? You look ill. Do you think I’m...contagious?”

“What? No. Shut up.” He jumped to his feet, striding into the back room. No point in worrying about any of that now. “You said you’re hungry. Well. Bit late for our picnic.” He started rummaging through the spilled-out packages of food, then remembered the tea and biscuits he’d left on the desk. Perfect.

“You should eat some…” His eyes fell on the corner of the desk, where a small jar had been overturned, spilling pens and quills across the floor. Had they been there before? He would have noticed, surely?

One of the quills was a dark brown feather, with lighter bars. He pulled the piece of feather out of his pocket and compared. Not a perfect match, but close.

Maybe he hadn’t found anything at all.

“A...Anthony? Are you still there?”

The shaking voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He dropped the quill and feather piece back onto the desk, and scooped up the plate of biscuits. “Coming. Look, there’s biscuits, and I think I can find…”

He leaned against the doorframe, looking at Aziraphale, still sitting forlorn on the metal stairs. Did he look paler than before? For the first time, it occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale probably _needed_ to eat. Needed some sort of balanced nutrition. Protein and fruit and veg…

“Why don’t we go out to eat? Hmm? Sushi? Italian? There’s that new French restaurant...well, you might not remember, but you thought it sounded good.”

“No, I...I don’t think I could eat much.”

“Soup, then. Chicken soup. Or a sandwich? There’s a little cafe across the street. We can stop over on...on the way home.”

“Home,” Aziraphale smiled, standing up. He wobbled a little, and Crowley rushed forward to support him. Before he knew what was happening, the angel had taken his hand again, fingers searching for a comfortable grip. “I...I think I really just want to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Apologies for this one being so late - I'm participating in GISH this year and that kept me a bit distracted today. Next week's chapter may also be slightly delayed (by which I mean, Saturday night or Sunday morning) but rest assured it is coming!
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who commented on chapter one! I've been working on this one for so long it feels strange to share it, but I'm so glad you're all enjoying so far!  
> And don't forget to look for me on tumblr at [ AethelflaedLadyofMercia,](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/) and Tarek (the extremely talented artist for this and about a thousand other fics in the Mini-Bang) at [TarekGiverofCookies.](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/)  
> \--  
> Notes:  
> *Udug: a type of demon in Mesopotamian mythology, an udug can (in theory) be good or evil. Evil udugs brought disease, famine, storms and disaster; good udugs could be appealed to for protection, particularly for children, though this udug seems to be working more on a "mob protection" strategy. Udugs were described as nameless, formless, and taking refuge in shadows, which inspired my depiction here.  
> *Anazētô: ancient Greek, meaning to look for or search for something, and also to long for something.


	3. Hestía

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley brings Aziraphale home to recover - but between his evasive answers and the flat itself, Aziraphale begins to wonder if something isn't right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some mentions of illness including weakness, dizziness, and implied/off-screen vomiting.

Aziraphale sat in the passenger seat of the vintage car, an enormous take-away container of leek and potato soup sitting hot in his lap.

_ Aziraphale. _

That wasn’t  _ so _ bad, he supposed. A little formal for everyday use, but he was starting to suspect he liked formal. It did seem to fit with the dusty shop, the bow tie, the small collection of wines stored in the back room. He couldn’t quite recognize the names of any of the vintages, but he had a sense they were expensive.

_ Aziraphale Zira Fell. _

That was a bit worse. He felt his lips twisting in distaste again, and shot a glare at the man next to him, driving the car. It wasn’t  _ his _ fault, of course; he hadn’t created the name, merely delivered it. Best not to blame the messenger.

Of course, thinking about his name brought other questions about his past to mind, but Anthony seemed unwilling to answer beyond a few words. So far, Aziraphale had learned that they were in London, that they’d lived here for quite some time, and that his shop was in Soho, but their flat was a mile away in Mayfair. Also that his husband drove so slowly Aziraphale was almost tempted to walk instead.

“What about my family?” Aziraphale wondered, mainly because it seemed the logical next question, but somehow the thought gave him a chill. “Do they live in the area? Should we call?”

Anthony slammed on the brakes, stopping the car in its tracks. It might have been more alarming if they’d been driving any faster, but even as it was, Aziraphale slid in his seat, and the soup sloshed alarmingly in its container. “No. Not. Nope. No family. Never. Nuh.”

“Are you alright, er, Anthony?” His husband’s name still felt strange on his tongue. So much to relearn. He would have to repeat it until it felt right, in case Anthony thought he wasn’t making an effort.

“Course. Why wouldn’t I be alright?” Behind him, the line of cars began blaring their horns, other drivers shouting in irritation. He cranked down his window and waved his fingers in what Aziraphale was nearly positive was a very rude gesture. 

“Only you seemed a bit...ah...alarmed?”

“Course I’m alarmed. Why would you want to bring those...those wankers into this?” He twisted around to face Aziraphale, his mouth a grimace of pain, eyes still hidden behind those black glasses. They went all the way around the sides, forbidding even a glimpse of the eyes behind - it was rather eerie, though Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to say that. Anthony probably had his reasons. Perhaps it was the style.

“I just thought...well...if I’m going to need to...to learn who I am again, they would have answers.” Anthony’s jaw tightened. “In any case, er, mightn’t they be worried?”

“No. We’re not calling, not meeting, not contacting them in any way.” Anthony pumped at the car’s pedals and shifted the gears. When they were rolling along at ten miles per hour again - line of traffic behind them still blaring horns - he finally grumbled. “You have...siblings.”

“Oh! How many? What are their names?”

“Aziraphale! You’re not…” A quick glance, barely more than a twitch of the head. “Gabriel. Michael. Couple others. But you’re...estranged, I guess you’d say. Big falling out. It was with good reason, too.”

For a moment, Aziraphale's heart lifted, realizing the names were familiar. But, no, Anthony had mentioned them back at the shop; no other details came to mind. “But...surely...if I’m ill, perhaps we could...heal the rift between us…”

“Angel. It is very... _ you _ to suggest that. But no.” He took a corner so slowly Aziraphale thought the car had stopped moving entirely. “Please just trust me on this.”

“...I will,” Aziraphale said slowly. “What about _your_ family?”

“Another falling out.” He grinned, and it wasn’t an entirely nice one. “A very dramatic one.”

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched, as if the car were driving at breakneck speed instead of rolling along slower than passing joggers. “Is it...much farther?” He wondered if the ancient car were even capable of moving more quickly.

“Eh, a bit. Don’t worry. We’ll get you home safe.”

The slowly rolling scenery looked surreal. Somehow, in a completely unfamiliar world where he remembered  _ nothing, _ the sight of the park moving past at something barely above walking pace felt indescribably wrong.

Perhaps he had some sort of phobia of cars, and preferred to walk everywhere. That made a certain sort of sense. “I’m just worried my soup will get cold,” he explained.

“It wouldn’t dare.” Although with that ambiguous threat, the car began moving just a little faster.

After another five minutes, they arrived at a very tall and modern looking apartment building. Anthony parked the car across the street, in what Aziraphale thought couldn’t possibly be a designated spot. But the long skinny man leapt out of the car the moment it stopped, circling around to open the passenger door. Perhaps there was a valet?

“Come on, Angel,” he said, arms jerking awkwardly around as if unsure whether to take the soup container or not. “It’s just...up the lift. Top floor. Can you make it that far?”

“Anthony, dear, I’m a little tired, not a complete invalid.” But after a few steps, he wished he hadn’t been so quick to decline assistance. His legs wobbled most frightfully.

Before he could even begin to stagger, Anthony had taken the soup container from his hands, and looped one arm across his back, supporting him. He didn’t smile as he did so. 

That was the odd thing, Aziraphale was finding. Anthony didn’t smile, ever. He scowled, and frowned, and bared his teeth like a wolf, but he never seemed to be truly happy. It was almost enough to make Aziraphale feel guilty, for being a burden. As if he were an intruder who had stolen away Anthony’s real husband, and replaced him with a sick, helpless fool who couldn’t even walk himself to his own front door.

But then he felt the fingers gently curl under his elbow, supporting him, holding him upright, and all such thoughts vanished. He sighed and leaned a little more against his husband, against the warm, sturdy planes of him. This was where he belonged.

At least, that’s what he thought. Then Anthony opened the door to their flat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, struggling to mask his disappointment. “This is where we live.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, uncertainly. “This is the place. Sorry for the, er, mess?”

There was no mess. There was no  _ anything. _

The walls were bare concrete, uncolored, undecorated, somehow claustrophobic despite all the open space. The front hall was barely furnished at all, the study - if you could call it that - had an ornate table trimmed in gold, holding a telephone and little else. Just this side of it, with its back to the door, stood a single chair that could be better called a  _ throne. _ A television hung against the wall to the right, some sort of bird sculpture stood in a corner to the left, and behind that an enormous window that appeared to be the room’s only light source.

And that was, apparently, it.

“You don’t like it?” Anthony asked, strangely defensive.

“No. I mean, yes. That is. It’s….quite…”

“Yeah, it’s not, er, homey. But there’s not much you can do with exposed concrete, you know?”

_ Exposed. _ That was the word for it. He felt exposed, as if he were being watched by someone from the corners of the room, some unseen observer, judging him, and finding him wanting.

“It’s...it’s  _ lovely,” _ Aziraphale said, forcing a smile on his face. “And I’m sure the rest is just as, er...where is the rest?” There seemed to be another room behind the television, past another large bird sculpture, but that should be all the space left in the building.

“Over here.” Anthony leaned against one section of wall and it rotated, revealing further rooms beyond.

“Oh. How very...modern.” Aziraphale took a step towards the entryway on shaking legs. Anthony stood in his way, turning the container of soup in his hands.

“Do you. Um.” He glanced over his shoulder into the space beyond, which seemed far more brightly lit, if not actually any more cheery. “Do you want to eat out here while I, er, tidy up a bit?”

Aziraphale leaned against the table and looked at the tall, forbidding chair, at the way the shadows hung even close to the broad window. Everything was straight, severe edges, with no warmth, no comfort.

He  _ lived _ here?

“No, I...I think I’d quite like to see the rest.” Which of them sat on that throne? Likely Anthony; it looked too narrow for Aziraphale, and in any case he suspected he used the shop as his office. What sort of a statement was a chair like that? What did it say about the person who sat in it - and the one who didn’t? Was it some sort of  _ joke? _ Had to be.

“No, really, it’ll just take a few minutes--”

“Anthony, don’t be absurd. I’m sure half of - of whatever mess is out there is mine. More than that, I saw the state of the shop and I simply will not believe I’m the  _ clean _ one.”

“I want you to be, you know, comfortable.”

That hardly seemed possible in this room. Aziraphale eyed the throne-chair one more time, then pulled out what he suspected was his trump card. “I...I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Sure enough, Anthony deflated in a second. “Alright, Angel. Come along.”

\--

The kitchen was on the far side of the flat. Past the plants, the bedroom, the lounge where Crowley kept his extensive music collection; past that one sculpture of Evil defeating Good that Aziraphale gave him enough grief for even  _ with _ his memories.

Well. He could start with that.

Even as he wrapped an arm around Aziraphale, taking his weight and guiding his shuffling, exhausted steps, he quickly miracled a coat covering the statue entirely.

What else would he need?

The bedroom walls were glass, looking out at the plants arrayed in the sunroom; he liked the effect of bright sunlight illuminating the dark room. Didn’t seem  _ normal, _ though, so Crowley smoothed them into the same concrete as the rest of the flat, nearly forgetting to include a door. There should probably be more doors, anyway; didn’t humans go in for doors? He tossed a few more onto the blank wall of the corridor, just in case.

Plumbing! He had an enormous soaking tub in the bathroom, but not much else. He tried to assemble a complete set from memory as they walked, based on pictures he’d seen in magazines. How many sinks was it supposed to have? At  _ least _ one per person. Or was that toilets? Showers? Humans preferred showers, right?

What about the kitchen? That was the most urgent. Was anything missing? 

He had a moment. Aziraphale had paused, gasping in awe at the array of plants, reaching out to tug at a brilliant green leaf. Crowley nodded, smiling tightly, and let him take it all in. The kitchen had also been copied out of a magazine, but in this case he’d actually taken his time to get it right. Refrigerator loaded with food. Dish service for at least ten. Full array of cooking equipment.

He glanced at the sculpture at the end of the hall and miracled a few more jackets over it.

“...dear? Are you listening?”

“Hm? Yes. Course. What...what was that last thing?”

Aziraphale was running a finger up the stem of the moth orchids, pure white flowers a bright contrast to the green surrounding them. They were tied to stakes to help them grow straighter, but they seemed to perk up at his touch, just a bit. “I just said, Anthony, I never imagined you were a gardener. So much to relearn.”

_ Anthony _ again. It wasn’t that he hated the name. He’d chosen it. But Aziraphale had never called him that, not really, and it was jarring. Not wrong, not the way  _ Crawly _ was, a knife twist to the chest, an identity that was never really him. But  _ Anthony _ was a part he played, a persona.  _ Crowley _ was his true self. It was how he wanted Aziraphale to know him.

But what could he say? Did humans call their spouses by their surnames? He didn’t think so.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his mind from wandering again. “Yeah. Come on, though. Soup.”

Aziraphale spent one more moment admiring the orchids, then allowed Crowley to steer him up the corridor -- avoiding the doors that didn’t yet have rooms behind them -- and around the corner into the kitchen.

“Oh, goodness!” Aziraphale stopped, staring around the room with rather more shock than Crowley thought it warranted. It was just a  _ kitchen,  _ after all, but the view was good.

You couldn’t actually see St. James’s park from his flat, but a little miracle had taken care of that. When they stepped through the door, they saw it across the room through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows and french door, opening onto the balcony. Late afternoon sunlight shone off the lake, stretching away below them, towards the Buckingham Palace Garden.

The light came into the kitchen as well, glinting off the appliances, some sleek shiny silver, some bold red. The black granite countertops were bare, stretching from the wall near the door back to the enormous white refrigerator. Crowley owned a complete set of cookware, of course, the very best pots and pans and three sets of knives because he couldn’t tell the difference, all carefully organized and tucked away on floating black shelves.

The middle of the floor was dominated by a kitchen island, holding the most complex gas stove Crowley had been able to miracle together, and a pair of stools tucked under the breakfast bar. Everything was sleek and clean, a model of minimalism.

Usually, Aziraphale teased him about the bowl of apples on the windowsill behind the deep farmhouse sink. Today his eyes slid right over it without noticing, taking in everything else.

“Which one of us is the chef?” Aziraphale blurted out excitedly, rushing forward to run a hand over the bright metal of the stove burners. “Oh, this is...it’s truly beautiful!” He reached up to touch the hanging stove hood, suspended over the kitchen island, tugging at the knives held magnetically to its side. “Look at it all! Why, this is the perfect workspace…”

He reached the refrigerator and pulled it open, looking at the piles upon piles of food Crowley kept there. “Just look at all this! Duck confit! Chicken marsala! Lamb in mint jelly! Is that...quail?” He pulled out one glass container and pried off the lid, taking a sniff. “Ah, with rose petal sauce! Why would we ever go out for dinner if…” He abruptly slumped, hand resting on the nearest countertop.

“Angel!” Crowley dropped the take-out container of soup onto the island, rushing across the kitchen to help, but Aziraphale seemed to recover on his own, sliding quail back into its place. “Are you alright? You need to sit down. And  _ eat.” _

“It’s me, isn’t it?” Aziraphale shuffled back to the stove, leaning heavily against the counter. “It must be. You didn’t offer to cook dinner, after all.” He looked up, with that expression he always wore when Heaven let him down again, when he tried to pretend the callousness of his superiors didn’t bother him. It had never fooled Crowley, but it seemed somehow more painful now, over something so small. “Nevermind, my dear. I’ll...I’ll be cooking you dinner again before you know it. In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it!”

Crowley tried to think of something to say. Perhaps,  _ worry about yourself first _ or  _ restaurant food is fine, _ but both felt hurtful. Should he try to claim he was the cook? What if Aziraphale asked to watch? Crowley usually just opened the oven and found whatever he wanted inside.

Before Crowley could find a response, Aziraphale had already moved on, looking around the kitchen with a smile. “Well, where’s the table?”

_ Shit. _ He  _ had _ forgotten something, but Aziraphale never  _ ate _ here, not really. Usually just walked around with a glass of wine or a plate of cheese, making disapproving comments about the decor.

Crowley cleared his throat and tugged one of the stools out from under the island’s overhang. “Breakfast bar,” he explained, chest aching again at the tense look in the angel's eyes. Of course when he'd designed the room, he'd decided on something  _ modern _ and  _ efficient _ and, he realized far, far too late, completely wrong for Aziraphale.

“Oh, yes, I see,” the angel fought to keep the smile in place. “Very, er, ergonomic.”

Aziraphale braced his trembling arms on the counter top, trying to boost himself up onto the stool. But he misjudged, nearly tipping it over. He waved away Crowley’s attempt to help, and finally managed it on the third attempt, maintaining his balance with difficulty.

“There. See? I’m already doing a bit better. Now. Let’s try this soup.”

\--

The soup was good. Filling, hearty, tasty but uncomplicated. The sort you could eat quite a few servings of without getting tired of it, but with just the right blend of spices to keep it interesting.

Aziraphale wondered if he could recreate it. He could certainly identify all the flavors, but he didn’t know what ratio they would be in. Should he be able to tell? Well, never mind. He expected it would be fun, relearning to cook, and rediscovering his husband’s favorite tastes.

Anthony wasn’t eating anything now, though he had opened a bottle of wine. He held his glass, leaning against the corner of the counter, an arm’s length away, watching Aziraphale intently.

“Darling, please,” Aziraphale insisted, taking another spoonful and blowing on it carefully. Against all odds, the soup was  _ still _ just this side of too hot. “You don’t need to fuss so. I really am feeling better. No headache,” not for at least ten minutes, though Anthony didn’t need to know that, nor that he’d nearly collapsed trying to climb the stairs at the shop, struck by another strange fit. “No fever. No nausea. I’m practically recovered.” He placed his spoon back in the bowl and rubbed at an eye. “Bit more sleep and I’ll be in tip-top shape.”

“You’ve barely eaten half a bowl of soup,” Anthony said sternly, as if he were a child. “Keep going. It’s  _ good _ for you.”

Aziraphale started on another spoonful, but his stomach rumbled, twisting, and not with hunger.  _ Try to keep it down, _ he told himself sternly.  _ Anthony is very worried. He doesn’t need to see you being sick. _ It was hard enough pretending he wasn’t constantly in danger of falling off the stool. Apparently he’d lost a great deal of muscle memory, as almost nothing  _ felt _ familiar.

He glanced at Anthony again, who looked ready to rush over and start spoon feeding Aziraphale himself. He put down his spoon a little more firmly this time. “Anthony. I believe I am ready to get that sleep. If you would be so kind as to, ah, remind me where the bedroom is.

Anthony immediately lost his balance, spilling the wine across the counter top. “Blast,” he growled, holding up a hand, then hesitated, looking around. “I, uh, napkins. Napkins.” There didn’t seem to be a napkin holder on the counter, the island, the windowsill or anywhere else.

“Or a towel,” Aziraphale said, moving his soup away from the approaching wave of crimson. He couldn’t see any towels either, though, nor a roll of kitchen towels. Now that he was looking, not even a sponge next to the sink for washing dishes.

“Right.” Anthony snapped his fingers, then pulled open a drawer, removing a black towel with a red stripe down the edge. “Towels. Of course.” He mopped up the spill seconds before it reached the gas burners, leaving the countertop as clean and sparkling - and sterile and bare - as ever. His head jerked as he moved, and although Aziraphale couldn’t be certain with the black glasses, his eyes seemed to be darting around.

“Well, perhaps  _ both _ of us are ready for bed,” Aziraphale said.

“Ngk.” Anthony dropped the towel onto his own shoes, rather proving the point, Aziraphale thought. “Why don’t you, er, you stay here. Finish your soup. I’ll go, you know, prepare. The bedroom.”

“Prepare?” He folded his hands, a sudden wave of anxiety coming over him. Yes, Anthony was his  _ husband, _ but he’d only known the man for a few hours. He supposed he’d yet to consider certain things. “I...I really am quite tired, my dear. I was...I think I’ll just go to sleep tonight and…”

“No!” Anthony waved his hands frantically, backing up until he collided with the sink. “No, I didn’t mean - yes,  _ obviously _ you should sleep. Only sleep. I’m just going. To. Tidy up. A bit.”

“Tidy up? My dear, you keep saying that, but apart from that atrocious pile of jackets in the corridor, I can’t see anything in this flat that needs tidying.” He glanced towards the door again, remembering what had looked like fifteen black coats, all piled haphazardly in the corner farthest from the front hall.

“I mean, yes, but…”

“Please,” Aziraphale sighed. “My appetite is quite gone. I don’t think I could eat another bite even if you forced me. Could you kindly just point me -  _ remind  _ me where the toilet is, then the bedroom, and I will take myself out of your hair.”

“Right across the hall. Other side of the st - of the jackets.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale carefully stood up, catching himself on the counter and trying to look like his lack of balance was somehow on purpose. Standing as straight as he could. He glanced at Anthony again, with another wave of anxiety. “Er. If you could just see your way to...bringing me some pyjamas…”

“Yes! Yes. I will get some sleeping clothes and bring them to you. Er. Do you want to take a bath? Or, you know, shower?”

His stomach twisted again, much more urgently this time, and everything tilted threateningly. “No, I think I’ll wait until my, er, strength has recovered a bit more, thank you.”

Before Anthony could argue again, he pushed off from the counter and headed for the toilet as fast as his feet could carry him.

\--

“Pyjamas. Pyjamas,” Crowley muttered frantically, dashing back to the bedroom, opening the door that was somehow a heavy slab of concrete on hinges. He hadn’t been paying enough attention when he created it, and he wasn’t sure he had time to fix it now.

The bedroom was very simple, a cozy dark square without too many distractions. A large square bed, black sheets and duvet. A dark red pot stood on the bedside table holding the long varigated-green spikes of a succulent he’d rewarded for particularly good behavior. The closet and dresser - ebony with a tasteful gold trim - both stood empty. Crowley manifested his clothing, so there was nothing to store.

He supposed that was the first thing he could fix. Waving his hands at the closet, he snapped, “I don’t know,” and suddenly it was filled with a copy of every outfit he’d worn for the last several centuries. That should at least  _ look _ plausible.

Spinning to the opposite wall, he snapped his fingers, getting rid of the dresser to make room for a duplicate closet. The dimensions were impossible - it should project into the front hall - but hopefully Aziraphale would be too busy to notice.

And for outfits…

He ran a hand through his hair. Apart from his tie, Aziraphale hadn’t really changed his outfit in over a century. Crowley put in a few pairs of identical trousers, and some varied shirt colors - a pink, a yellow…really  _ all black _ was much easier to work with. Tartan jumpers perhaps? Maybe a few other styles of tie? A hat?

He was completely out of ideas, but at least the closet didn’t look bare. Maybe he could say the rest were at the cleaners.

He duplicated the bedside table, but it looked empty. It needed...something...a book! He knew he had a book  _ somewhere. _ No time to look now; he still had the wall beside the door to complete.

Another dresser, smaller, simpler this time. Dark walnut perhaps. Just a few necessities. Socks. Underthings - he flushed bright red, trying to remember the feel of the undergarments when he’d worn Aziraphale’s body two months before. It had never even occurred to him to  _ look, _ but hopefully he could guess at the angel’s preferences. And finally, the pyjamas. Black silk for himself, tartan flannel for Aziraphale. He grabbed the tartan pair and hurried up the hall.

“Aziraphale?” He knocked on the door. “Are you. Er. Can I. Are you  _ decent?” _

“Anthony. Um.” A pause long enough that Crowley almost opened the door. “There doesn’t appear to be any...paper…”

The bright red flush returned. “Try - uh - it should be - I - the cabinet over the back of the tank?”

“Really, that’s the first place I looked!”

“Try, uh, the other one?” Crowley clicked his fingers desperately.

“I was going to ask why we...oh, you’re right. There it is.” Another pause. “There also aren’t any...any towels...or soap…”

Crowley bit his tongue so hard it nearly reverted to its forked shape. “Towels are out here. I’ll get you one. The soap...might be...in the tub?”

“Why on earth would...ah, so it is.” Another pause, then a soft voice. “Please don’t come in.”

“Your...yeah, everything is here. Whenever you’re ready, Angel.”

\--

Aziraphale hadn’t been able to keep any of the lovely soup down.

Once he had the towel and the soap, he was able to clean up the mess. Most of it had wound up in the toilet, anyway, and only a little on his sleeve.

He gazed at himself in the long, flat mirror. Was he always this pale? Did he usually have watery eyes with bags under them? His hands were trembling again.

He would have to tell Anthony he’d been sick.

He just wanted to be  _ better. _ Was that too much to ask?

Aziraphale turned and looked around the expanse of smoky grey tile that covered floor, ceiling and walls, unbroken except by two white doors on either end of the long black countertop, which held four deep red sinks - two with one shiny brass tap apiece, one with two, and the last, for some reason, with  _ three. _

He wanted very much to brush his teeth, but there was no toothbrush holder anywhere on the counter; the mirror held no secret cabinet, and nothing was stored beneath amongst the exposed pipes. He could call for Anthony again, but this was  _ his  _ home. It couldn’t be that hard.

So, despite his lurching stomach and spinning head, Aziraphale began to explore.

With his back to the mirror, the door stood on his right. The toilet he’d been sick in stood in the corner nearest the door. Another toilet, also deep red, stood in the far corner, ahead of him and to the left. Each had a simple black cabinet above the tank; the one he’d used had been filled with unopened bottles of hair product, though not a comb in sight, the other had been packed full of toilet paper rolls.

Between the two toilets stood the enormous glass-enclosed walk-in shower, nearly the size of the little office area around his desk at the shop. Inside were at least a dozen brass or silver showerheads, an oval-shaped bathtub with no obvious taps of its own, and three benches as if for a sauna, only he couldn't imagine who would sit there - the towel racks hung directly above them, at almost exactly head height.

There appeared to be no drain, except at the bottom of the tub, where he’d found the soap.

Directly opposite the entry door, filling most of the space between the toilet and the sinks, was a deep sunken bathtub, this one with taps and jets and a small compartment that turned out to hold some sort of soap balls, several bottles of scented oils, and a rubber duck. The oil bottles were the only thing Aziraphale had yet found that appeared to have been used.

Surely, then, one of the two white doors was a cupboard of some sort. Aziraphale tried the one nearest the door first - and found a simple, small shower, lined with white tile, the back folding itself into a comfortable-looking bench. Well, that was promising, but not what he needed right now. The other door by the enormous tub - ah. That appeared to be another toilet.

It occurred to him that there was something odd about the bathroom.

However, there was another cabinet above this toilet and sure enough it was filled with stacks of unopened toothbrushes, some black, some tartan, as well as a dozen boxes of toothpaste.

Did they throw away their toothbrushes every day? That made as much sense as anything else, Aziraphale decided, and really it was a mystery best left for another day.

When he was ready, he carefully gathered his clothes and stepped into the hall. “Er. Anthony?” The flat was completely linear, but there seemed to be an awful lot of doors. He tried the first one and found it locked.

“Down here,” called a voice from somewhere near the room with all the plants. He shuffled his way down, leaning against the hard grey wall for support. Much as he hated feeling dependent, he missed having Anthony’s arm holding him up.

As he drew close, he thought he heard a low, threatening growl from the last door on the right, a heavy one made to look like a slab of concrete. “...probation but if you droop, if I see one leaf wilting, one fallen petal, it’s straight to the compost pile, I won’t even stop to…”

“Who are you talking to, dear?” Aziraphale peered into the room. Much as he’d come to expect: straight lines, hard edges; the room was dark as a cave, and about as hospitable, barely lit by a line of indirect lights, shining from a hidden source onto the ceiling, casting more shadows than illumination. The furniture was dark, the dresser seeming to lurk by the door, and the bed covered in pitch-black sheets. Anthony stood beside it, glaring at the lovely white flowers Aziraphale had seen in the room outside before. He quickly placed the dark blue pot on a bedside table, next to a book.

The white flowers and the green cover of the book were the brightest things in the gloomy room.

“No one. Wasn’t talking. Just. Thought we could use a little color in here. Are you alright?” He made a move to take the clothing, but Aziraphale held the bundle a little tighter. “Look at me.” He peered closer at Aziraphale’s eyes - though he still hadn’t removed those glasses - and frowned again. “Were you sick?”

Aziraphale nodded, and tried to keep his tone light. “Is it obvious?”

“Into bed.” He took the bundle of clothes from Aziraphale’s unresisting arms. “I’ll get you some ginger tea, then I want you to have a good long sleep.”

“But--”

“No buts! I’ll only be a moment.” And he vanished before Aziraphale could say another word.

Well. Looking around, one half-open closet appeared to be full of black clothes, so presumably that was Anthony’s side. He certainly knew how to keep a visual theme going. The other side had the flowers and the book, which turned out to be a collection of poetry.

At least there was no sign of whatever Anthony had wanted to  _ tidy up. _ Aziraphale determined not to go investigating any bedroom drawers until he was ready for whatever... _ paraphernalia _ he might discover there. 

Instead, he settled onto the bed and picked up the book, its well-worn spine opening to a middle page. Was this his favorite poem, perhaps? He read it eagerly, hoping it would spark something.

_ I watched thee when the foe was at our side _ _  
_ _ Ready to strike at him, -- or thee and me, _ _  
_ _ Were safety hopeless -- rather than divide _ _  
_ _ Aught with one loved save love and liberty. _

_ I watched thee in the breakers, when the rock _ _  
_ _ Received our prow and all was storm and fear, _ _  
_ _ And bade thee cling to me through every shock _ _  
_ _ This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier. _

_ I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes, _ _  
_ _ Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground _ _  
_ _ When overworn with watching, ne’er to rise _ _  
_ _ From thence, if thou an early grave hadst found. _

_ The Earthquake came and rocked the quivering wall, _ _  
_ _ And men and Nature reeled as if with wine. _ _  
_ _ Whom did I seek around the tottering Hall? _ _  
_ _ For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine. _

_ And when convulsive throes denied my breath _ _  
_ _ The faintest utterance to my fading thought, _ _  
_ _ To thee, to thee, even in the grasp of death _ _  
_ _ My spirit turned. Ah! Oftener than it ought. _

_ Thus much and more, and yet thou lov’st me not, _ _  
_ _ And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will. _ __  
_ Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot _ _  
_ _ To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still. _

“Here you go,” Anthony interrupted, returning far quicker than Aziraphale would have thought possible, a white mug in his hands. “Drink this, and then bed. No reading, or…” He trailed off, eyes falling on the poem.

“Ah, thank you.” Aziraphale put the book aside. The poem hadn’t felt familiar at all, and left him with a gnawing ache. Was that what he liked, melancholy poetry? He didn’t have time to think about it. Anthony pressed the mug into his hands, tea rich with the scent of ginger, turmeric, and a touch of honey.

The mug, he realized, was white, with white wings on the handle, identical to the one from his desk. Just seeing that made him smile, and feel - perhaps for the first time since stepping out of the shop - just a little bit at home.

Anthony sat beside him on the bed, fists clenched, watching as he drank. There were several inches of space between them, as if to be sure they didn’t touch, even by accident.

“You know,” Azirphale said, when the silence got to be too much, “I, er, I had no idea you could find tartan silk pajamas.”

“What?” Anthony leapt to his feet, nearly pulling his glasses off, staring at what Aziraphale wore. Then he ran to the dresser, pulling open a drawer to retrieve what appeared to be a set of pure-black flannel pajamas. “There. Uh. There was a mix up. At, um. The cleaners.”

“I can’t imagine what kind of mix-up that would be,” Aziraphale commented dryly.

“Do you...er...I can see if there’s another set, if…”

“No, this is...oddly comfortable,” Aziraphale said, finishing his tea. His stomach did seem a little less sore now, at least. “And you’re right. I should sleep.” He didn’t think it was later than five o’clock, but Aziraphale was worn through. He wanted to get away from everything, just for a little while, and hope that it would be better in the morning.

Anthony continued to fuss, as he tried to get comfortable, straightening the blanket and smoothing it, then knelt down beside the bed. “Do you...do you want me to stay? Until you’re asleep?”

With a pang of regret, Aziraphale remembered guilt-tripping his husband over  _ not wanting to be alone  _ just a few hours before. Shameful behavior. “You don’t have to.”

But, with only a second’s hesitation, Anthony picked up Aziraphale’s left hand, pressed it between both of his. “I didn’t ask that. Do you  _ want  _ me to stay?”

“I...yes. I do.” Anthony nodded, running his thumb across Aziraphale’s knuckles. It made him smile, the contrast between that stern face and those gentle fingers.  _ Must be why I married him, _ Aziraphale mused. “But you don’t have to sit on the floor, you know. Must be very uncomfortable.”

“I’ve had worse,” Anthony said. He studied Aziraphale’s hand a moment longer, then brushed his lips across the fingers, just by his wedding ring. Quick, uncertain, tender. He pulled back right away, as if not sure how the gesture would be taken, but Aziraphale squeezed his fingers in thanks.

“Anthony, dear. Will you...tell me about us?”

“What?” He seemed startled at the very idea. “What do you mean? Nothing to tell, just two...two married people in a flat. One who can’t remember anything.”

A thousand questions swarmed just out of reach. He didn’t even know enough to know what to ask. “How did we meet?”

“Work thing.” Anthony tipped his head dismissively. “Ages ago, long before you had the shop.”

That didn’t help much. “What was our wedding like?”

“Small. Private.” He hesitated, thumb brushing against the golden ring. “Our...families didn’t really approve.”

That seemed like dangerous ground. Aziraphale tried something else.

“Do you have a wedding ring? I don’t think I’ve seen you wear it.”

“Nh. Take it off when...when I garden. Misplace it a lot. You hate that.”

From Anthony’s expression, another dead end. “Which one of us proposed?”

He thought that over longer than Aziraphale thought it needed. “Guess I did. Wasn’t very romantic. You said  _ absolutely out of the question. _ So I asked again. And again. Eventually you agreed.”

“So you’re the romantic?” It was a warm sort of thought, something bright in his chest.

“No,” Anthony said a bit too quickly. “I just. Nagged. A lot.” His fingers continued to trace across Aziraphale’s. “Sometimes I have no idea why you...why you said yes.”

“Well, it is nice to be pursued.” He settled down into the pillows. “Did you ask me out first, as well?”

“Nah, that was you. Saw me in a bar when I was having a really bad day. Just came over and started talking. You wouldn’t  _ leave, _ no matter how rude I was.” Like a miracle, his brow unfurrowed, and a genuine smile spread across his face. “There was this restaurant you wanted to try and you said...well, you made a really  _ awful _ joke about it. And I thought,  _ why not? _ But when we got there…”

His voice went on, and soon Aziraphale was sound asleep, if not remembering the date, at least dreaming a very intriguing replacement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Thanks as always to Tarek, my awesome artist and co-creator; to Kindathewholepoint, by beta-reader/emergency brit-picker/captain of my first GISH team; and to the entire Do-It-With-Style Discord server, particularly those who encouraged me to make Crowley's apartment more and more extreme (they are responsible for the bathroom).
> 
> Apologies for this chapter coming so late - I hope the extra art work makes up for it! The next chapter is double-length (just under 12k) so it may wind up delayed as well. However, since Tuesday is the one-year-anniversary of my first AO3 fic (!) I'll be posting some shorter stories throughout the week. Subscribe to make sure you don't miss them!
> 
> Let us know in the comments what you think - and look for me on tumblr at [ AethelflaedLadyofMercia,](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/) and Tarek at [TarekGiverofCookies.](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Finally, a big THANK YOU to ALL OUR LOVELY READERS! <3 Your comments mean so much!  
> \--  
> Notes:  
> The chapter title, Hestía, literally means a hearth or fireplace that was the center of the home in the ancient world and through much of history; figuratively, it stands for the whole house or family. Hestia is also the name of the goddess of the hearth, the protector of family and home.
> 
> The poem Aziraphale reads is Lord Byron's "Love and Death." In case it was unclear, this is a poem Crowley has read many times.


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